


Desire Fills the Void

by rufflefeather



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, F/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine lies back and thinks of Albion. Set during 4x12.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: Gwaine doesn't belong to me either. /sad</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desire Fills the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hardticket for the beta and to mizzy2k for the handholding during my minor Het-breakdown!

Blood drips down the side of his hand. Whether it’s the cut he received from the first man he fought, or another wound, Gwaine doesn’t know. It’s starting to become hard to keep track.

‘This is all very diverting,’ he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and tasting metal, ‘but I’ve a rather cosy cell to go back to. Wouldn’t want the guards down there to grow lonely without me.’

Gwaine’s ears still ring from that last blow to his head. He hopes this man will stay down now, for all the good it will do. The room is still full of jeering lowlifes, their courage emboldened by his increasing fatigue. They all want a go now, and all that is keeping them from pouncing at the same time, is the woman sitting on the throne. The contrast to Arthur; black where he is light.

Morgana.

‘Now, now,’ she says, ‘let’s not be cruel. I believe our champion is in need of a drink.’ She stands, and Gwaine does his best not to sway. His entire body _aches_ ; he has lost count of how many men he fought, how many he killed, how many he only injured. He’s still standing, no matter how dirty, no matter how much blood is leaking from his veins, seeping into the stones beneath him, taking whatever warmth he has left.

And as long as he holds her attention, she does not direct it toward Arthur. Toward Merlin.

‘If I remember correctly,’ Morgana says, closing in on him, carelessly kicking the fallen fighter to the side, ‘you have a weakness for ale, don’t you Gwaine?’

She’s beautiful, like this. Maybe even more so.

‘Evil looks good on you, Morgana,’ he says and he smiles his most winsome smile. It must be a little lopsided, courtesy of the blooming bruise that is beginning to swell, because she backhands him hard across the face.

‘That is Milady to you, Gwaine,’ she says, grabbing his chin, nails digging into his cheek. ‘I am, after all, your Queen now.’ Her eyes dance with amusement. _You poor thing,_ Gwaine thinks, sucking his smarting lip into his mouth. _Always searching for validation._ He doesn’t say it. Instead he bows with a flourish that makes his ribs hurt and says;

‘I beg your pardon, _Milady_.’

‘Good boy.’

Morgana walks to the nearest table and pours a cup of honeyed wine, left over from Arthur’s feast which seems so long ago now. She takes a sip and her eyes close, head tilting back so her alabaster throat is bared.

'Gods,' Morgana moans, hand on her chest as if she can feel the wine heating her. ‘If I didn’t have my vengeance to come back for, this wine would do it. How I missed the luxury of castle life.’

She approaches Gwaine again, walks around him in a tight circle. He can feel her dress move against his legs. ‘So handsome,’ she says, repeating her words from the dungeon. ‘So noble.’ She leans against him and he can feel her breath against the back of his neck as she whispers: ‘Tell me, is it true what they say?’

Morgana’s hand trails lightly over his back. Her touch brings something with it. A scent Gwaine can’t recognize but knows all the same. _How,_ he thinks, leaning back without meaning to, breathing her in. _How can evil smell this sweet?_ It’s intoxicating, enough to make a man wonder. To make him reassess his values, his morals – even if they are shady to being with – because who is to say who’s right and wrong? Who’s to say magic _shouldn’t_ rule the lands? Gwaine is fighting for the legacy of a man who killed thousands of innocents. What if –

Gwaine shakes his head, dizzy now for a whole new reason. ‘People claim a lot of things,’ he says with a painful grin, leaning away a little and taking a deep breath, ‘but yes, all four of them left satisfied.’

Morgana ignores him. ‘There are rumours that you are King Lot’s son. If I cared, I could use that. For a ransom maybe. I don’t, though – care, that is. Unless it shines in your eyes, gold is the power of the weak.’

‘Yes, I abandoned my princely ways in favour of brawling in pubs like any sane person would,’ Gwaine says wryly, his mouth twisting in a smile. Morgana moves and stands before him again.

‘It doesn’t matter. If there’s anyone who knows it makes no difference what blood runs through your veins, it’s me. Would you like some?’ she asks, taking another sip of the wine. Before he has a chance to answer, she grabs a fistful of his hair, tugs it harshly and presses her mouth against his. It is surprise more than anything else that has him gasp, and the wine, warmed by Morgana’s mouth, trickles into his. He swallows, gasping when she pulls away, a flicker of gratification in her eyes.

‘I believe his thirst is stilled. Who’s next?’

Before she turns and the next fighter bares his teeth and swings at him, before Gwaine parries the blow with his wrist and deals one of his own, he sees Morgana’s hand tighten around the cup, her eyes lingering on his face.

Three more, after that one. Four maybe, he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, only needs to keep fighting, block the fists, watch for hidden knives – this one favours his left leg so Gwaine stamps down hard on his shin. The man cries out, the sound high and piercing and still he hears the crack of bone. Gwaine winces, feels sympathy, he doesn’t normally fight this dirty. But this isn’t a tussle in the next tavern on his travels. He whirls around, crouching, ready for more as the man with the shattered leg is dragged away. There’s two of them now and Gwaine’s shoulders slump. This is it then. His sweat-stained hair stings his eyes and he knows, he knows he might take one of them out, but the other will just knife him down. At least it’ll be quick. Gwaine pulls his torn shirt over his head, it only hinders his movements.

‘Stop,’ Morgana says softly. She may as well have yelled it, by the reaction of the room. The men move back, less of them now, the circle no longer full and Gwaine feels distant satisfaction at that. They fear her, these men. They fear the girl that used to bring down mountains to save a child or a servant. Now she just brings down mountains.

‘You fought well, my champion,’ she says, stepping down from the dais.

‘I’ll never be your champion,’ Gwaine tells her, quietly, kindly.

‘Oh but I could make you,’ Morgana whispers, tugging at his hair again, forcing his head back, bringing her mouth to his ear. ‘I could take away your will and make you my servant. I could make it so that fulfilling my every wish is your only heart’s desire. I could make you crave me and never, ever have you satisfied. Until you lose your mind with it, until it drives you wild. Like an animal you’d live; starved of the one thing you’ll always want.’

‘Nothing wrong with having something to strive for,’ Gwaine says, smiling as he tries to even out his laboured breathing.

‘But I think I prefer you like this,’ Morgana says, ignoring him again. ‘Defiant, rebellious. Helpless.’ She studies him for a moment. Behind her Helios grows restless, and oh, if only they’d allow him a few minutes rest, how Gwaine would like to rearrange that arrogant mug.

‘Morgana,’ Helios says when she runs a long finger over the length of Gwaine’s chest. There is an undercurrent of threat in his voice. _And well,_ Gwaine thinks, _that’s a mistake._ Because threatening Morgana is like threatening a predator that has been trapped for years and suddenly found its fangs.

Helios doesn’t understand though, but Gwaine can see her face. Helios puts a hand on her shoulder, dark tattoos dancing over nearly equally dark skin. Morgana never takes her eyes off Gwaine but simply casts Helios off with a flick of her wrist. His hands claw at his throat as if magic could actually be fought with anything but more magic. Helios sinks to his knees.

‘I still have use for you,’ Morgana says, and Gwaine thinks she’s talking to him but then Helios is lying on the floor sucking in deep lung-fulls of air. ‘But never think to intimidate me again.’ Helios splutters an inaudible reply but she pays no mind. ‘Come,’ she says, turning on her heels. She doesn’t look back, as if she knows Gwaine will follow.

He does. He follows her right into Arthur’s bedchamber.

 

 

There is no house for him to return to. No overgrown garden, no rooms to air. Camelot is the closest thing to a home Gwaine’s ever known. The only place he hasn’t felt like leaving. Camelot had weighed him and for once, he had been found wanted. Whether he cared to admit it or not, his core lay here now, in this city; the sum of its King and its warlock making it whole.

So if this is what he needs to do to press his palm to the city’s paper heart and stop it from burning, he’ll gladly bear the blisters.

_And maybe,_ – he thinks, shifting his weight and turning Morgana on her back in one swift movement, ghosting his mouth over hers. Her eyes widen with a fleeting vulnerability she can’t have felt in a long time, _– maybe this isn’t such a great sacrifice to make._

He says as much, leaning over her on his elbows. She’s gorgeous, like this. All hard lines, face framed by a billow of black.

‘We’ll see about that,’ Morgana says, even from beneath him staring him down with a gaze that could bring greater men to their knees. A long nail digs into his cheeks and he feels blood sting through his skin. Morgana smiles, her eyes turning gold as she yanks him down by his hair and laps at the blood. A soft whispered word he doesn’t understand but feels the effect of anyway leaves him breathless and excruciatingly hard.

‘That,’ he pants against the slope of her collarbone, ‘really wasn’t necessary.’

‘Oh I know,’ Morgana says, ‘but you didn’t truly believe I was going to make this easy for you, did you Gwaine? You didn’t seriously think you just charmed yourself into my bed? You have something I _need_.’ To emphasise her meaning, Morgana curls her fist around his painfully swollen dick and Gwaine winces. ‘There is no power, such as the power of life.’

Her eyes darken, a feral hunger making the grey bleed into black.

‘There used to be light in your eyes, Morgana.’

She laughs, arches off the bed a little as she does. ‘Oh Gwaine, I crossed a dark trail so my eyes would light golden whenever I wish. And it’s better, so much better than any of those values Arthur hopes to instill in his people. Don’t you see? I hold the power of earth and sky in the palm of my hand, I could bring trees to bear fruit in the middle of winter or make them barren in spring. I could bring all your hopes and fears into being.’

‘Then why –,’ Gwaine whispers, mouthing at the long line of her neck. He can’t help it, there is that scent again: sweet and inviting and Gwaine never could say no to such an invitation.‘ – do you chose to create the desert? What are you so afraid of that it’s the fear you want to awaken?’

Morgana’s eyes narrow but she composes herself quickly. ‘Is this the speech that is supposed to reach my soul, Gwaine? Don’t waste your time, it may be too precious for that. I sold my soul a long time ago.’

‘I will slit your throat –,’ Gwaine tells her quietly, without any real ill will. After all, Morgana is a product of Uther’s madness in more ways than one. If there had been someone, anyone, to guide her on her lonely path, it may never have led to ruin.‘ – If given half the chance.’

‘Your chance would bleed to death on the cold stone ground if you even breathe at me in a way I don’t approve of.’

Gwaine pulls against the hand still restraining him by the hair, ghosting a breath over her lips. ‘Then share mine for a while, Milady.’

‘I don’t have to _share_ , Gwaine. I could conquer you, I could chain you to my side like a hound and then abandon you,’ she hisses and the snake on her wrist stirs.

It uncoils slowly, blinking at Gwaine and yawning as if it’s been disturbed from a deep sleep. It would be cute, but Gwaine’s fairly sure the silver droplet forming on its tiny fang is of a particularly nasty venom. Morgana allows it to slither around the bedpost above their heads.

‘If he comes before I allow him,’ she tells it, ‘kill him.’

Gwaine is about to open his mouth, say something witty, but Morgana’s hand heats against his groin and he hardens, impossibly, even more.

‘Is this your first encounter with magic Gwaine?’ she asks him as he tries to keep his wits together. He shakes his head, can’t talk because it feels like his balls are connected to his throat and they are both pretty tight. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ she says. She moves her hand and Gwaine moans. ‘There is a sorcerer in Camelot, did you know that Gwaine?’ she asks and Gwaine has to shake his head again. He wants to push into her hand, or pull away, he doesn’t know. He wants to kiss her mouth and punch it. But mostly, he wants to lift her skirts and bury his face beneath the depths of all that lace.

Morgana just keeps talking, absently increasing and easing the pressure of her hand against his cock. ‘There has to be, there is no other explanation. First Uther manages to escape every magical attack, year after year and now Arthur. Someone is protecting them.’

And this makes sense. This is good. It’s distracting and if Gwaine could only gather his thoughts for a moment – because she’s right. There is something, someone right on the edge of his mind –

‘Is it you Gwaine?’ Morgana asks, squeezing hard and his legs tremble, still holding him up over Morgana. The snake hisses somewhere above his head.

‘No,’ he says, leaning back to ease off for a moment. He pulls her up, pushes the hair out her face and kisses her, hard. Her hands knot in his hair and he thinks she’s about to yank him off, but she just holds him closer, tilts his head and sucks on his tongue. Gwaine’s head clears a little and he thinks about her words. How there has been someone protecting Uther and then Arthur. Someone who’d be near them all the time. Someone who could be inconspicuous, who no one would really pay much attention to. Someone who would serve and never expect –

Of course. _Of course_.

Gwaine stills and immediately Morgana pulls away. ‘You know,’ she hisses and the snake rears its head. ‘You _know_.’

Morgana throws Gwaine onto his back with a flash of gold and rips at his trousers. His dick springs free and she folds a cold hand around it. ‘Tell me who it is,’ she says, pumping her hand up and down.

‘Never,’ Gwaine says, jaw clenching.

‘It will cost you your life.’

Gwaine laughs, the sound followed by a deep moan because this feels so good. ‘I never expected to leave here alive, Milady,’ he says but thinks _and isn’t love worth dying for?_

‘Who is it?’ Morgana demands, leaning over him, her hair tickling his chest. He can feel heat pool in his belly and knows it won’t be long now. At least this is a good way to die.

He closes his eyes, lets the feeling take him, fully intent on enjoying the ride if it’s going to be his last.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Morgana says, letting go of him. She lifts her skirts, straddles him and before Gwaine has the chance to make a noise, he is surrounded by her wet heat.

‘Fuck,’ he swears, digging his fingers in the flesh of her thighs and pushing his hips off the bed.

‘Not yet,’ Morgana says, and she smiles, actually smiles. ‘Tell me who it is first.’

Gwaine bites his lip. ‘Tempting,’ he says, ‘but no.’

‘Who is worth this much to you? You, who cares for no one? It can’t be Arthur and I doubt it’s one of his knights, and _oh_ –’

Gwaine tilts his hips, using her weight to sink deeper. He rocks gentle, small circles into Morgana and her head falls back, her throat a long arch bowing backwards in grace. He places a hand around it, wanting to feel the delicate skin beneath his fingers. When Morgana looks at him again, her eyes are black. Gwaine lets his hand follow the lines of her body until it rests on the swell of her breasts.

‘Don’t stop,’ she breathes, grinding against him. ‘Oh.’

Gwaine takes a moment to grin, he wasn’t joking about those four, after all.

‘Don’t stop, you smug bastard,’ Morgana says, pressing her hands against his chest for leverage, ‘or I’ll make sure you’ll never get it up again.’

‘I thought I wasn’t going to leave here alive,’ Gwaine says, his voice hoarse and breath labored.

‘I might decide to keep you,’ Morgana says, leaning down, ‘although I’d have to cut out your tongue if I did.’ To prove a point, Morgana kisses him, sucks his tongue into her mouth and bites it. Gwaine moans and encircles her waist with his hands, urging on the roll of her hips. Her fingers dig deep into his chest, nails drawing blood as they reel together, clinging to different meanings of this moment but ultimately wanting the same thing.

‘Tell me who it is,’ Morgana says, voice strained. Her hair sticks to her face and Gwaine thinks he has never seen a more beautiful woman. ‘Tell me.’

‘Not going to happen, my love,’ he says, kissing her neck, her chest, the part of her breasts not concealed by the dress she’s still wearing.

‘Who would you protect?’ she pants. ‘Who do you care about?’

Gwaine could feel the pressure build again, the heat between them scorching in all the places they touch. He won’t last much longer, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to be the first to finish. Gwaine brings a hand beneath Morgana’s skirt, lets it trail up her leg until he finds the spot he’s looking for. Morgana arches up when he does, moaning wildly, all movement losing rhythm.

‘Who, Gwaine,’ she shouts, ‘who do you love?’

‘Right now?’ he says between gritted teeth, pushing his thumb against her clit and sliding two fingers against her wet cunt on either side of where his body breeches her. ‘You.’

Morgana cries out and she pulses around him, contracting in hard, stuttering jerks and Gwaine can’t hold on any longer. He veers up and clings to her, spilling his seed into her body. Somewhere behind him the snake hisses, and Morgana whispers; ‘Oh shut up,’ into his hair.

There is a softness in the embrace and for an odd moment Gwaine thinks he could really love this woman, if she’d allow it. But then the moment’s gone and Morgana pushes away from him.

‘Your essence replenished mine,’ she says, straightening her dress. If not for her red bitten lips, Morgana looks composed and not thoroughly fucked. ‘But you spilled more than just your seed, Gwaine.’ Morgana leans closer, face hovering above his. ‘You run along now. And tell Merlin I’m coming for him.’

Gwaine should know by now that there is always a sacrifice to make.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> [Here at LJ.](http://rufflefeather.livejournal.com/26676.html)


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